


Enough of a Natural Disaster for Me

by chamel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of a fight, Apologies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurricanes & Typhoons, Kissing, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Napoleon pov, Storms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28903473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel
Summary: Now Illya has been gone for hours after he stormed out of the safehouse and, more worryingly, the tracker that Napoleon had snuck onto him had gone dead. They aren’t just in the middle of a mission, they’re in the middle of a exceedingly tricky mission involving a highly volatile and dangerous target, leaving them all more on edge than usual. Add to that the unlucky timing of a cyclone bearing down on them, set to make landfall in Macau all too soon. So yes, Napoleon had gone after him without a second thought, tearing out of the safehouse like a bat out of hell, heedless of the rain already beginning to lash mercilessly down.It had seemed like a good idea at the time, ok?(When Illya disappears after an argument, Napoleon braves a storm to go after him and ends up finding more than he bargained for.)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85





	Enough of a Natural Disaster for Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elisexyz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/gifts).



> Written for the tumblr prompt: Napollya + “I’m sorry” kiss + Throwing Their Arms Around The Other Person, Holding Them Close While They Kiss
> 
> And also with bonus kissing in the rain, because I wanted to write a scene of that in a different fic but it never happened. I had originally planned this a little differently but then I got this song stuck in my head and it just kind of wrote itself.
> 
> Title and lyrics from the song "Natural Disaster" by Jeff Tweedy.

It had been such a _stupid_ argument.

How was he supposed to know that today happened to be a significant anniversary full of bad memories? How was he supposed to know that his usual level of friendly needling would set his partner off in a way he hadn’t seen since Rome? How could he have guessed that their verbal sparring—which, ok, he said some things he regrets—would have ended up with him pinned to the wall by his throat; certainly not any way he might have imagined being pinned to the wall by his partner.

Right. No point in thinking about that _now_.

_Now_ Illya has been gone for hours after he stormed out of the safehouse and, more worryingly, the tracker that Napoleon had snuck onto him had gone dead. They aren’t just in the middle of a mission, they’re in the middle of a exceedingly tricky mission involving a highly volatile and dangerous target, leaving them all more on edge than usual. Add to that the unlucky timing of a cyclone bearing down on them, set to make landfall in Macau all too soon. So yes, Napoleon had gone after him without a second thought, tearing out of the safehouse like a bat out of hell, heedless of the rain already beginning to lash mercilessly down.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, ok?

It seems like less of a good idea now that he’s soaked to the bone and the water is squelching in his ruined shoes as he hurries through the flooding streets. And who knows _when_ he’ll be able to get back to Milan to commission a new pair. The area where Illya’s tracker had last transmitted from is deserted now; everyone has sought shelter from the storm at this point. Everyone except Napoleon. For all he knows, their target had managed to capture his partner, and his chances of finding any clues are rapidly washing away.

Still, it’s not like he can just give up. He squints down at the small receiver, which displays the last known location of the tracker, and follows the signal down the street. It’s a frustratingly normal road, lined with cute little shops and restaurants, now all closed and boarded up against the storm. Not exactly someplace that he’d expect a highly-trained spy to disappear. He’s nearly reached the exact spot when the receiver flickers and winks off, no doubt as waterlogged as Napoleon feels.

“Fuck,” he swears, barely audible even to himself over the wind and rain, and smacks the device futily against his palm a few times.

There’s nothing here. Of _course_ there’s nothing here. It’s the middle of a goddamn tropical cyclone. He should probably see if he can find someplace to break into so he can ride out the worst of the storm, because it’s unlikely he’ll make it back to the safehouse at this point. A restaurant, maybe, so he can raid the kitchen for something to eat. Not that he’s particularly hungry; his stomach seems to have been replaced by a cold, bitter knot of fear and regret.

If only he’d laid off it this morning. If only he’d noticed the signs that this wasn’t a normal day. If only he’d gone after Illya sooner. If only, if only, if only. And now his partner is missing. He could be injured, or being currently tortured, or, or—

Abruptly Napoleon is nearly yanked off his feet when someone grabs his arm and hauls him bodily into an alley. He doesn’t yelp in surprise—he _doesn’t_ —but it’s certainly a shock to be shoved up against a wall when he thought he was the only one on the street. It’s even more of a shock to see icy blue eyes staring back at him from beneath a soaked and dripping flat cap.

“ _Peril?_ ” he gasps, hardly believing his eyes.

“What are you doing here, Cowboy?”

“Looking for _you_ ,” Napoleon yells over the wind and rain. “You never came back to the safehouse, and your tracker went dead.”

The corner of Illya’s mouth twitches upward at that. “Trackers and water do not mix very well, you know.”

“I can’t _believe_ you, Peril. Why didn’t you come back before the weather got bad?”

Illya shrugs. “Didn’t think you’d care. Thought I would wait out the storm, maybe not get so wet.”

_That_ makes Napoleon bark out a laugh. “So much for that,” he says, plucking at Illya’s soaked jacket.

“I was not until _you_ decided to show up and stand in a typhoon,” Illya shoots back, but there’s no heat in his voice. He stares at Napoleon for a long moment, and he doesn’t really look angry anymore. Bemused at Napoleon’s sudden appearance, perhaps, and certainly aggreived by the weather, but not angry.

Abruptly Napoleon realizes how close Illya is standing, his body only inches away, practically boxing Napoleon against the wall. It’s no doubt just so that they hear each other over the howling wind, but it draws their tussle that morning to mind, of how close they’d stood then under very different circumstances. Now the proximity pulls Napoleon’s heart into his throat, and he recalls his partner’s earlier words.

“What do you mean, you didn’t think I’d care?”

Illya hums in response, looking away from Napoleon’s searching gaze, and it makes Napoleon wonder if there wasn’t something more behind Illya’s reaction to the fight this morning. He thinks back to the look on his partner’s face right before he’d left the house and realizes with a start that Illya hadn’t just been annoyed and angry at Napoleon’s words. He’d been _hurt_.

Fuck. Napoleon winces internally, kicking himself for being such an idiot. Well, there’s only one thing for it.

“Look, I’m sorry about this morning. I pushed it too far, and I should have known better,” he offers. Napoleon desperately wants to reach up and turn Illya’s head, to force his partner to meet his eyes, but it feels like a mistake. Still, he can’t just let this go. “C’mon, Peril. You’re my partner. My… my friend. Of course I fucking care,” he huffs, and then adds quitely, before he can stop himself, “probably more than I should.”Christ. Hopefully the wind swallowed that up before Illya could hear it. He wipes a hand over his face, a futile gesture in the storm. “You think I’m not going to worry when you disappear in the middle of a hurricane?”

“Typhoon,” Illya corrects automatically, and Napoleon can just see the corner of his mouth pull up in a small smile. He can’t help but chuckle at that, and it finally brings Illya’s face back up to look at him. “It’s ok, Cowboy. I am sorry too. You did not know, and instead of saying something, I snapped. It is… difficult for me, sometimes. I am not accustomed to sharing these days with others. With people I— I care about.”

There’s something heavy in Illya’s gaze, and Napoleon gets the feeling that there’s more to his words than it seems at first blush. For a moment the world dims around them—even the driving rain and the howling wind—and he is lost in the glacial blue depths of his partner’s eyes.

“I’m sorry Illya,” Napoleon breathes, and this time he’s not sure if it’s still an apology for what he did this morning, or for what he’s about to do now.

Before he can think better of it, he pushes forward, closing the narrow gap between them and sealing their mouths together. Illya is frozen in place, his lips cold and wet from the rain, and briefly Napoleon considers that this is probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done. Even more stupid than going out in the middle of a typhoon. But then, astoundingly, Illya is kissing him back, his lips parting to let Napoleon’s tongue slide into the heat of his mouth as his body presses forward, pinning Napoleon to the wall. And oh, _this_ is everything he imagined, and nothing like he could have imagined at all.

Napoleon throws his arms around his partner’s waist, pulling him even closer, aching for the warmth of his body that’s radiating through their sodden clothes. One of Illya’s hands tangles in his hair as the other carefully cups his jaw, far more gentle than most would have ever guessed the Russian could be. It’s not a surprise to Napoleon, though, not anymore; Napoleon, who has seen those hands gingerly care for his partners’ wounds, who has seen them tenderly tuck a blanket around Gaby when she falls asleep on the plane (the first time he’d woken to find himself so tucked had been a bit of revelation), who has seen them delicately folding pierogi in a warm, cozy kitchen.

Which is not to say that Illya is not kissing him with _enthusiasm_. He sucks at Napoleon’s lips and licks past his teeth, and Napoleon has to admit he’s impressed. Of course Illya would be as good at this as he is at everything else. Napoleon would think it unfair that one man could be so talented in so many things, if he wasn’t currently the beneficiary of such talents. It makes him want to know what _else_ Illya is secretly talented at, and the thought sends a warm tug of desire curling low in his stomach. It’s only exacerbated by the feeling of the long line of Illya’s body pressed tightly against his and the way their clothes are clinging to every part of them, leaving very little to the imagination.

Of course, at that point Illya moves on to suck and bite at the tender skin of Napoleon’s neck, and Napoleon’s resulting gasp ends with him sputtering through a mouthful of rain. Right. They _are_ still standing outside in a tropical cyclone.

“Peril— ungh, _Illya_ , wait—” Napoleon groans, trying to ignore the surge of disappointment that floods through him when Illya pulls back. “The weather. We should— gotta get out of this hurricane—”

“Typhoon,” Illya smirks wryly.  
  
“ _Typhoon_ , Christ, whatever. You have somewhere to shelter nearby?”

Illya nods, an unbelievably soft smile on his face, and leans in briefly to kiss him again. “This way, Cowboy.”

He takes Napoleon by the hand and leads him further down the alley to a side door that’s already unlocked. The light from the parts of the windows that aren’t covered is barely enough to illuminate the interior, but the space appears to be full of tables and long, plush booths. A restaurant, then. A moment later Illya’s lighter flares to life and he lights a small collection of candles that he’s apparently managed to scrounge up somewhere.

“Guess we’re spending the night here, then,” Napoleon says as he sits down in one of the booths, bouncing once on the cushion. “Could be worse.”

Illya grunts in agreement as he peels off his jacket and hooks his soaked hat over the back of a chair, and the way the warm glow of the candle light illuminates the thin shirt clinging to his torso makes Napoleon’s mouth go dry. Then Illya catches him staring and smirks knowingly.

“However shall we pass the time?” Napoleon asks, trying for smooth nonchalance and all but failing. All his charm and skill at seduction fleeing him in the face of something that matters.

Illya’s grin turns wolfish at that, and he stalks purposefully over to Napoleon before neatly straddling his lap. Without the distraction of the wind and rain the sensation is nearly overwhelming, so surely no one could blame him for the way his breath catches in his throat when Illya leans down, lips brushing the shell of Napoleon’s ear, and murmurs, “I have a few ideas.”

* * *

_I've never been blown by the winds of a hurricane_   
_Never been in a flood_   
_I've never been buried up to my neck in mud_   
_But I have fallen in love_   
_And that's enough_   
_Of a natural disaster for me_

**Author's Note:**

> This was a lovely break from my WIPs and from real life, and I even managed to keep it less than 2k, which, like, is short for me, lol. Especially with these two. Thank you all for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought; I always love squeeing about these two in the comments, and your comments and kudos bring me such joy.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr!](https://cha-melodius.tumblr.com)


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